Ever After Anonymous
by the extroverted recluse
Summary: It was supposed to be an easy way to make money. They were all crazy, after all. And I thought I could "help." They came to me - it seemed like a good idea. Drug problems, bestiality, hair loss due to stress...and a pocket full of cash for me. It should have been the best idea of the century. Not.
1. Preface

**Preface**

* * *

They say you can't trust anyone alive and well, since I'm technically dead, I'm hoping you can trust me.

Ah hell, who am I kidding – I wouldn't even trust me.

But I have a story. It's not glamorous – but it's a story nonetheless. I was once like you. I grew up with two loving parents, for the most part, anyway. I had a sister who hated me as sisters do and a career, which lies at the heart of the problem.

Will you listen though? At least for a little while? I think I deserve that much. After you hear what I've done you'll probably hate me like the rest of them do – and to be honest, I wouldn't blame you. Not one little bit. Just hear me out though, okay?

My story starts the same way most stories do: with a horrible idea.


	2. Chapter One: Jane

**Chapter One**

* * *

_"Every fairy tale had a bloody lining. Every one had teeth and claws." _  
- Alice Hoffman

* * *

**Jane**

* * *

They came in droves the day I opened. Who knew this part of town could be so messed up?

Wait. My bad. _Psychologically challenged_. I'm a professional. I need to act – and speak – accordingly. Because that shit sells, apparently.

But seriously – they came from all over. One with this issue, one with another. One with two issues and one with "none" (which of course meant she was worse than any other case I'd seen). Some had weird hats, others no pants. Some even just sat on my doorstep and rocked themselves into insanity. I learned to never take my eyes off their faces – one could be too easily scarred in this job.

Not five minutes after the morning paper (with a large and disturbing advertisement featuring my blushing face on the front page) had been set out in cafes, hospitals and delivered to every house in Elphoria, I had my first knock at the door. I hadn't expected anyone to come for at least a week, maybe two. That's what I'd been told. So bubble wrap and cardboard boxes sparsely decorated the office. At least there was a desk and two chairs set out. No couch, however. It was just too…predictable.

I answered the door with a manufactured smile – it's funny how fast those come on. Not even twenty-four hours in this and I was already fake.

"Good morning." _Not really, but whatever._

She was shorter than me by a head, with the brightest jade green eyes that made me think of a cat – when you've just kicked it because it's scratched you up the leg. Only now the cat wants back in your good books.

"I need help," she whispered, as though mortified and sure someone important would hear. Didn't she know this whole office block was deserted? It was a dump and cheap for a reason – no one wanted in.

"Don't we all?" I snorted back. "You're in the right place."

I extended an arm and moved aside. She stepped through into my office.

"This is…nice."

"If you like living in a trash can."

She shrugged and before taking the seat on offer, swung her hair over her shoulder (I noticed now that it went past her feet and trailed on the carpet behind her). Every ruler length or so, there was a ribbon or bit of twine tied around her hair. It looked like an abnormally obese snake was sucking on her head.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, taking my own seat.

She fidgeted. "Can you cure me?"

"Can you tell me your problem first? I'm no Jesus. I don't read minds." Obviously she's never seen a shrink before. _Probably should have_, my mind snidely added.

The girl bit her lip. She couldn't have been more than seventeen – I had a sister who was eighteen and there was just that one little indiscernible difference that told me this girl was younger. Like when you look at an apple and the colour of the skin tells you which one will be crisp. Well, this girl was crisp. My sister was getting on to mushy, changing colour – that kind of thing.

"I – I can show you."

I nodded and she began pulling ribbon and twine out of her hair, finally finishing with a silk scarf at her hairline. Then she stood to her feet. "Promise not to freak out?"

What?

And then she did what I _did_ but _didn't_ expect her to do. She certainly looked like the kind of girl who would walk past guys and pull her fingers through her hair in a way that said, "you can try, but you'll never succeed." However, I didn't count on what I witnessed that day actually happening. Ever.

Her hair began to fall out. Patches here and there until eventually, she looked like a worn dolly. Her eyes glistened as she stared down at me.

"I'm losing it – all of it. Who's going to love me now?"

And then the water works went into overdrive.

_Oh hell_, my mind mumbled. _We are not qualified for this crap yet. Just go back to your basic training. She's a nutcase._

"Please take a seat, Miss…uh?"

"Ra-Rapunzel." She was shaking.

I paused. Of course I'd heard her name before. Who hadn't? The princess was called Rapunzel, but she disappeared years ago. Some time during infancy – I can't really remember. I was in college then, surviving my degree thanks to cheap liquor and daily sleep-ins. I don't doubt I was the first to pass through college this way, but I'm almost positive that I was the first to get through college with a distinction average _without_ attending classes.

"Okay, _Rapunzel_." I tried to make it sound like I really cared. Really, I did try. "So you're losing your hair. But, uh, how did you manage to keep most of it, you know…_in_ your head. You weren't leaving hair behind you as you came in the door."

I was sure she hadn't but all the same, as I said it, I checked the doorway. Clear. Hair creeps me out. Especially hair in the shower drain. Ugh.

"I got a spell from a witch."

I sighed. Naturally. Best not to even go there.

Another approach. "Rapunzel, you're a young, beautiful woman – your identity isn't in your hair. That's not what makes you _you_."

"But you're wrong!" she cried.

I thought I'd made a good point. That pearl of wisdom had cost my mother two thousand in college. Still, not even I fully believed me. Maybe I would if I'd actually gone to class.

"My hair is everything," she continued to sob. "If I don't have it, I don't find a man. And if I don't find a man, I don't get to leave the castle."

"But you're not in the castle now."

She shook her head, as though the truth was painfully clear and I just wasn't getting it. "I got a free pass for today. I'm buying vegetables for mother."

Of course. A free pass. Why didn't I think of that? How bloody ridiculous.

"You came here, though."

"So you can cure me."

"Right."

We sat in silence. Her wide blue eyes searched my face and I couldn't take my own eyes off her head. It was, well…naked.

"What do you think I do, Rapunzel?"

"Well, your ad says that you can solve any problem."

Ah yes. The ad. I was definitely going to kill Chalmers later on for that. Good for nothing PA. Who cares if I wasn't paying him – he still should have listened to what I suggested. Solve any problem? Like hell I could. That was faulty advertising. I'd intended on going with something more neutral: _"I'll give your cracked psyche a crack and if I can't fix it, your money back!"_

"I'm a psychologist," I said, "not a hairdresser. If you're losing your hair, it would be best for you to speak to the hair experts. Clearly" – I pointed at my unruly mess of black curls – "I'm no expert."

"But-"

"I can see you're very distraught," I continued, moving to the door, "but I really don't think I can help you, so if you don't mind, I've still got unpacking to do."

I waited for her to move, the door wide-open letting out stale, musty air. She didn't budge.

"You don't get it," she whispered. "I'm not just losing my hair – I'm losing my mind."

"Well then," I replied, letting the door swing shut, "that's an entirely different kettle of fish and $250 straight up. I take cash."

* * *

I was twelve when I decided life sucked.

Now hold up for a moment. Yes, I decided life sucked – but I wasn't about to write some sappy song with a broken guitar or run off and kiss the closest vampire. I didn't work that way.

Mother, Kala and I had just moved to Elphoria. It was supposed to be a great change for us. But here's the thing with "great" changes – _"great"_ can mean amazing, or it can mean the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

The latter meaning applied to our lives.

In Elphoria, the houses here were nicer, the schools were cleaner, the air fresher. If you had money. We did not. So the houses were damper, the schools were filthier, the air ranker. But we were finally living in the capitol – mother at last felt apart of something.

Unfortunately what she became apart of was the phone book for the local police station.

Kala was a baby and I was bored. What do you do in Elphoria when you're twelve and have no money, friends or hobby? You play chicken with the shopkeepers. I wasn't the best at that game. I was caught once, twice, three and four times. Within a month of living in Elphoria I got to first name basis with the local cops. At least I made sure I stole them a donut every so often. Something to reward them when they came to pick me up.

Each day I would be led into the station precisely on three p.m.

"Nice to see you again, Constable," I'd say with a sweet _'I won't be caught next time'_ smile.

"Jane, it's not exactly a pleasure to see you again," he would reply, and then on the quiet add: "Did you get the donut with the fudge centre this time?"

But years passed and I grew out of my rebellious ways. Honestly, it just became too much of a bother to keep it up. However, I made sure I passed on my title of "most arrested teenager" to someone worthy. My three-year score was broken in six months by my new protégé. Sadly, I did feel a little pride for the youngster –even jealousy. He could do things I hadn't even comprehended.

Once high school ended, I attended university. Paid for by the things I never received as a child. Turns out there was a reason I was only ever given a candy cane on Christmas and card on my birthday. Mother had a dream that I would one day make her proud. Every spare cent went into a jar the size of my head and it paid for half of my tuition (the rest was funded by the state: apparently I qualified as a criminal worthy of needing to be reformed – go figure).

Well, mothers dream almost died – twice, at least – but I did bring it to pass the day I graduated with a doctorate in psychology.

Really, no one was more surprised than me.

After the ceremony, whilst in deep discussion with mother, a professor had told her how I was "brilliant, yet lazy." Couldn't have summed it up better, myself.

Life took a whole new turn then. For reasons unbeknownst to me even to this very day, I cleaned up. I rented an apartment in the city, planned a respectable form of world domination, and even got a cat. Mr. Smiggles constantly smelt of rotten tuna. He lived on the balcony 24/7.

But then the little funding I did have behind me dried up. I went from eating red meat, to chicken, to fish and then to lentils. I'd become poor once again. Ashes to ashes, poor to poor. My life's story. At least I knew it well.

Simon Chalmers, one of the few friends I'd made in university, came to stay with me during that time. It was his "brilliance" that concocted what he hoped would be our plan for salvation. If we could make enough money off the depression, depravity and delusions of the good people in Elphoria, then we might be able to live like kings and queens.

Simple plan. Simply executed. One million ways it could go wrong.

All we had were our degrees. We could pick apart the human mind yet running a business? A _real_ practice? We'd not been taught that.

In came Selene Ashbury, a mutual friend who had – thankfully – majored in business studies. Because there are people in the world who enjoy having their brain cut to pieces on a daily basis.

"What you need to do, is register a business name," she explained as she paced my one room apartment, turning away from one wall to another every fifteen seconds. "We don't want to come off as anything less than professional. What you want to create is affordable, professional help. The more realistic and homely the practice, the more likely it is that people will come."

I wasn't going to argue. I had no idea what she was going on about.

"And you need to practice your bedside manner," she added, almost as an afterthought.

I protested, but realized she might have been very right.

Our budget left much to be desired, so Selene paved the way for us with a seemingly never-ending resource of wealth know as "daddy." She insisted that we rent an office in an area clearly in desperate need of help.

"It'll be easier to find customers," she explained.

Three weeks later and on our last twenty dollars, we opened up shop. The first thing we did was clearly label the office door – there were far too many alike in the building and without fail, each of us would go to the wrong door each time we arrived.

Jane Fairlight & Associates was painted onto the glass in large, red letters. I didn't have one single psychology associate, but I honestly hoped any customers I received would be too mentally challenged to notice.

Rapunzel was my first customer. After that first day I didn't know what to think and dropped all expectations. Elphoria was a buzzing metropolis filled with many strange and confusing individuals. Part of me had imagined that my customers would be normal. I was a shrink – clearly I wasn't going to have normal customers. That was the whole point.

Rapunzel came back each week. It had been six weeks since I'd first met her and she was still a mess – at least she'd now picked up a wig and ditched the failing tendrils she'd so helplessly tried to hold on to.

"I think it all started when I was a baby – losing my hair," she said, voice airy as her mind drifted over other matters. I'd recently given up and bought a couch – but only when I'd realized naptime could work for me in between appointments. "Do you think you can carry stress from when you're six months old?"

I rolled my eyes. I didn't have answers. All I could really do was tell her she was crazy and to get the hell over it. Shit happens.

"I think you need a glass of wine," I told her. "And a vacation. And to get out of that bloody tower."

"I'm out now."

"One day does not a holiday make."

There was a knock at the office door and I thankfully went to answer it. My sessions with Rapunzel weren't getting any easier. Perhaps she really was certifiably bonkers.

But probably nowhere near as crazy as the girl who stood outside my door.

"Have you seen my rabbit?"

She was petite, wearing a blue dress with dirt smeared around the hem and her eyes were spacey. Her lips were slightly parted in a half smile. The way she looked at me suggested one thing.

"Are you on drugs?" I'd seen it many times in college. Students getting high and seeing all sorts of shit. Usually they came down with a bad case of the munchies – a craving for fried chicken in particular.

The girl giggled. "I'm not on rugs – I'm on carpet!"

Yep. Great. "Get inside." She followed my order and threw herself into the office.

"Look!" she squealed, eyes on Rapunzel. "The Queen of Hearts! You lost weight!"

Rapunzel raised an eyebrow at me. "What's going on?"

"She's tripping," I replied. And then turning to the girl I said, "You must be Alice – I've heard of you."

Her eyes grew wide. "Did the white rabbit tell you who I was? He's a clever little bastard."

"Yes." I spoke slowly, enunciating every word: "The white rabbit told me all about you. But now I need you to tell me all about the little white pills you've taken."

"They're like candy!" She hiccupped and stumbled backwards, hitting the wall. "I can't get enough!"

"Trust me – you've had enough," Rapunzel muttered. I wondered if she would still pay for the time that was passing now – technically it was still her session. And she did sign a contract that basically said _'yadda, yadda, yadda – I'll pay for everything.'_

"They said eat me," Alice continued, her voice crossing into awe. "But I didn't just eat them – I swallowed them whole. All eight of them!"

"Eight?" That wasn't good. With that many tablets in her system the only thing she could do would be –

Vomit. Yep. All over the carpet. Why the hell are there always carrots?

"Someone made a mess," Alice whispered. "They'd better clean it up."

Oh, I agreed. Oh they bloody well better. And even though she wasn't in any fit state to be handling a mop, I pulled one out from the closet and passed it to her. Rapunzel had fetched a bucket, filled with hot water from the bathroom.

"Have fun," I said. Turning back to Rapunzel who had returned to the couch, I continued on with my previous train of thought. "You need a vacation. Nine times out of ten that'll cure everything."

"What statistics say that?"

"The statistics according to me. Now, you either take my advice or take your crazy ass self back to that tower and make friends with the moths in the rafters, okay?"

Rapunzel wasn't listening. Her eyes were focused on something behind me. I turned around to find Alice, vomit soaked mop in hand, dragging it back and forth across the walls, chanting, "We're painting the roses red!"

"What the fuck are you doing?" I wasn't even half surprised. I'd seen worse. But now my office was going to smell for a week. Wonderful.

"Painting the roses red," Alice replied, as though it were ridiculously obvious. "Want to help me?"

And then it hit me. The idea that would change everything.


	3. Chapter Two: Eric

**Chapter Two**

* * *

_"There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are."_

- W. Somerset Maugham

* * *

**Eric**

* * *

Here's what the writer doesn't tell you:

Stories are hard to come by and as painful as a fiber-less diet.

You think I'm lying? Ask anyone. Dickens, Austen. Pretty sure some of them went mad in the end. I kind of feel like I'm headed that way myself. Of course I refuse to. Though there is a lot to be said for insanity. The craziest people have the best work. Take van Gogh – who the hell cuts off their ear? And look at him! He was a genius. Bloody crazy but brilliant.

I suppose I could settle for being loopy?

Don't try and tell me I'm wrong. You have to be mad in the first place to think that writing is ever a good idea. Sure, it can be a way to process your feelings. But it can also cause the voices in your head. I'm never alone. At least one of those voices is currently attempting to be helpful. She keeps chanting, "Buy bread, milk and butter. Buy bread, milk and butter."

Kinda like my mother.

I have been pushing and pulling at my imagination for seven long years now. It's like trying to get through an unmarked door. Ever had that dumb moment of pulling on the push? That's what it's like for me. Only the damned thing won't budge.

Maybe I'm faulty. Can I return this brain of mine? Anyone out there willing to do a refund?

No, I didn't think so. And that's because when you end up with a dud, you're screwed. You think anyone wants to trade baseball cards with the kid who's got the rookie? No! People – kids included because apparently (according to my therapist) kids are people too – want champions.

I am no champion.

I'm an ion. Champion minus the "champ."

But back on the note of kids – who invented them? Who in their right mind thought, "Here's a brilliant idea! Let's take me and make me _miniature_! Wouldn't that be cute?"

No! It's not cute. You've created a life-sucking demon. Congratulations. Wanker.

My therapist says I have issues. But I haven't decided if he's just trying to get more money out of me. Not that I have any. Writer. Remember? Basically translates to "eternally poor." And who in hell would want to buy my garbage, anyway? I could trade it in for toilet paper, perhaps. Wouldn't get more than that.

Do you know what the five main food groups are for writers? Cappuccino. Flat white. Latte. Macchiato. Espresso. You think I'm lying? Obviously you're not a writer.

Well, not a writer like me, anyway. Heck, no one is a writer like me. And do you know why? It's because I suck.

Other writers – writers who actually have _ideas_ (god, it sounds like a disease). They make the money. They take it all. And they do-not-share. Selfish bastards. Couldn't I have a fifty? Couldn't someone shout me lunch? Hey Rowling, I wouldn't mind a Lexus. Help out a fellow sufferer.

But they would never help me. Never. Because writers are the most selfish creatures on this spherical orb full of heretics and painkillers known as "earth."

I dated a writer once. God. Worst decision of my life. Or perhaps the best. Depends which way you look at it. She was always asking how my manuscript was coming along. Due to the fact that I'd nearly gone bald and had aged twenty years in a week, could she not have deduced that it wasn't _going? _The only thing worse than someone asking you when you'll be published is a _writer_ asking when you'll be published.

Because you just know they're silently comparing their work to yours.

Between writers there's this invisible race. You're both racing to the finish line – to a book deal with every damn publisher in the country, nay the world. It's Survivor, Lost + The Amazing Race all rolled into one. Death is for the defeated. And for the victor? Well, the age-old proverb holds true here. _To the victor go the spoils._

"Eric!"

I shudder. _Incoming!_ "Ursula?"

Into my office saunters what appears to be a leather bag, yet I can see through that guise of inch thick makeup and leopard print spandex. Ursula von Crabbenstitch is thirty-six. She even suggested we date at one point. Normally, the six year my senior thing wouldn't freak me out. The problem here? Remember how I mentioned leather bag? Ursula's spent far too much time out in the sun. She makes my eighty-something grandmother look like fresh meat.

"Any chance we'll get gold out of the puny brain of yours?" She folds her arms and leans against the doorjamb, posing herself in a way that should say, "Come and get me" but for her does the opposite and screams "I'm out to eat your heart because I'm a desperate old hag."

Sometimes I feel sorry for her. Sometimes.

"I'm trying. Make no mistake," I tell her. "I'm just trying to find a good lead."

She laughs. "You couldn't find a lead if it was shoved up your arse, screaming out for help." And then she throws this mornings paper on my desk. "Page four, main article. I want you to take it over."

"What happened to Elle?" Elle Bejour is our leading writer here at the Elphoria Times. No one – and I mean no one – takes a story from her without her express permission. Once, this guy named Jerry Maxwell on the second floor did a follow up piece to one of her stories. That was two years ago and well, we're still looking for Jerry.

"She's spent the morning clutching the porcelain throne. Morning sickness. I've told her to take a hike. No writer of mine let's their personal life get in the way of a story."

"Ursula – even if Elle were dead, I'm sure she would find a way to make my life a living hell for taking her leads away."

Ursula strides over, leans on my desk and I can see a little more than I ever wanted to. Damn her low cut shirts – it should be illegal for woman of her….age.

"Let's get one thing straight, okay, buttercup?" I swallow hard, nod. "I'm editor in chief. Either you do exactly as I tell you, or beat it. I've got no time for people who aren't willing to put in the hard yards. This is a grueling business. Either you want it or you don't. And you do want it, don't you, Prince Charming?"

Damn that nickname, I hate it. Yet I nod hastily, making sure she knows she's been understood. "What's the assignment?"

She smiles and flips open the paper. "Girl on the west side has a little…support group going. Says it's for people who didn't get their 'happily ever after' – quite frankly I think it's a load of shit. But this could also be gold. I want you to follow it for the next month an article each Saturday, page four – Elle's old spot."

I skim over the article. My jaw drops. "I do not – absolutely do not – want to cover a bunch of women sitting in a room with a box of Kleenex, crying about how they didn't get husbands. That's not what I do!"

"Really? And what is it that you do, Eric? Because the last time I received anything from you, do you remember where it ended up?"

I don't need her to remind me. The three thousand word article I had slaved over day and night for a week had heated her office for an hour, curling and turning to ash in the fireplace. That whole experience had been particularly difficult to swallow.

Knowing defeat was very much close by, I throw Ursula my most acidic glare before holding out my hand. "Address."

"Knew you'd come round, Prince Charming."

"Yeah. I don't envy you at all."

The day was almost at a close. I'd made it home, almost dragged myself up the flight of stairs to my door and found my way into the shoebox I called home. There was a miniscule kitchenette, good for heating instant noodles and a bathroom where you need to be double jointed to get into the shower. My mattress was in the living room – I'd given my sister the bedroom. But it was home. At the end of a painful day it was a much welcome relief to smell the moldy wall paper.

"When are you going to make it on your own, Eric?" Sophia asks. "It's not that hard."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear sister. I forgot. You're a bestselling author who can offer advice?"

"Beat it. My point is that you barely push yourself for more than five minutes before giving up. You need to stick at it. Writing isn't always easy but if you try you succeed."

I grab a beer from the fridge and turn my full attention back to Sophia. "It's like this. I work seven full days a week to support you while you go to college. Mum and dad wouldn't do it – the responsibility fell to me. All I ask in return is for you to say absolutely nada about my work and life will be sweet. If you can't do that, I'll call you a cab and send you on your way."

She sighs. "So touchy. I just want the best for you."

"Yeah, well, the best thing for me right now would be finding something interesting in this story."

Sophia shoves me out of the kitchen – room for just one person, you see – so she can start making dinner. "I know the group you've got to write about. Girl from my college goes there. Remember Alice?" I groan. Talk about a nightmare. "She flunked out last semester because she got into the party scene and started popping pills. Saw her at the market on Monday. She's trying to turn her life around, but I won't believe it till I see it."

I flip on the TV and sit in the only chair in our 'living room.' "So it's a group for druggies?"

Just my luck.

"No," Sofia replies. "It's a group for pretty much everyone. Apparently the princess is attending it. And some girl who's cross-dressing. Oh! And there's this other girl who's in love with a dog…or a wolf…something big and hairy. I forget."

I take a swig from the bottle in my hand and start to process. A group for pretty much every kind of misfit you can imagine. Okay, maybe the story does have potential. But what if I could get in, get out – all in less than a day – and have enough information to stretch across four articles?

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

The sign overhead reads 'Cattermole Way.' I've found it, only now I'm starting to get second thoughts about this assignment. I'm going to have to talk to women. Not that that's the problem. There's a reason why Ursula nicknamed me Prince Charming, but these women are all crazy.

Shit. I really need this work though.

It's been three months, two weeks, four days and twenty-three hours since I last had an article published in the Times. If I didn't spit out something soon then I'd be a goner.

Here goes nothing.

The office building is so run down and dilapidated that it's a wonder it was ever passed by a building inspector. Thing could crumble at any minute. But the stairs hold as I climb to the fourth floor. The corridor ahead is dark, save for a sliver of light coming through a door on the far left. Approaching, I notice the name "Jane Fairlight & Associates." This is it.

Three knocks and the door swings open on chaos.

Two women are on the floor, arms entangled, wrestling, pulling hair, screaming bloody murder. Four more women surround them, egging on the fight, chanting, "Get her! Kill her!"

And then there's this other woman, trying to pry the two fighters apart.

"Don't just stand there!" she yells. "Grab her!"

I drop my briefcase and launch myself at a small brunette girl who remarkably manages to escape. I'm not strong but she's a lot smaller than me, so I didn't think it'd be so hard to control her. She rounds me and jumps on my back, hands around my throat.

"Don't stop me from finishing off this bitch!"

"Bitch?!" screams what I thought was a small Asian boy – turns out it's a girl. Who knew? "Clearly you're the bitch! You and that dog boyfriend of yours! You're his bitch!"

I flip myself back and land on the brunette leech on my back. She groans and tries to push me off, but I somehow manage to right myself and keep her pinned down.

"Everyone! Shut the hell up!" The woman who had enlisted my help hauls the Asian girl to her feet. "This is not okay – we don't come here to kill each other."

"It's just anger management, Jane," replies the Asian girl.

"Clearly you've not managed it so well," says one of the chanters. She's got her way past her hips. It's a little disconcerting. Just not normal.

"This is not how we manage anger," says the woman holding the Asian girl. And then turning to me, she says, "I'm so sorry. I'm Jane. You must be Eric?"

I gulp. "That's me."

"Right. Girls, this man is here from the paper – he wants to do an article on us. Best behavior, please."

Several of them roll their eyes, but then concede and nod. Various mumbles of "Yes, Jane" echo around the room.

Jane walks over to me and we shake hands.

"Welcome to the nut house."

I've made a very bad decision.


End file.
